How I Remarried Your Mother
by winter machine
Summary: Inspired by Kary's Addek thought of the day and the general silver-anniversary McMarriage zeitgeist, here's present-day Derek, with help from Addison, putting together the pieces of the past.
1. The Box in the Attic

**A/N: In my defense . . . this is Kary's fault. Her "Addek thought of the day" sent me into a typing tailspin, and here we are. It was going to be a one-shot, and then I realized it would be fun this way too. If you can't already guess the format, you'll know by the end, but it's set up to allow for lots of (short, for me) chapters, which will help me update faster and on the go whenever needed. It's perfect, since I've been wanting a silver anniversary story but I love flashbacks, and this allows for both. And thank you to Thomas/Bays for the concept and title inspiration from your show (and to Shonda, as always, for creating our favorite characters). **

**SO.**

**. . . it's the year of Addek's silver anniversary, aka the present day. Full prompt revealed at the end of the chapter.**

**Here we go:**

* * *

**Episode 1: The Box in the Attic**_  
.._

* * *

"It has to be up here somewhere." Addison reaches for another box, standing on tiptoe to try to read the label in the rather dim attic light. "I told you we needed a system."

"You did," he admits, "but your system was overcomplicated."

"At least it was a system!"

He makes a face at her, and she makes one back.

"Guys."

They look down at their daughter's voice, and then over to the box she's indicating.

"What about this one?" Carson asks. Max, their very large and very shaggy rescue dog, barks supportively at her side.

"I'm not sure." Derek reaches to help their daughter manage the box; she's tall for her age, but not _that_ tall. The pediatrician predicted she'd top out Addison by the time she's finished growing, though – he's not actually sure which of the three of them is going to take that the hardest.

"I think we have to take some others down to get to it," he determines, trying not to sound grumpy, when he realizes he's not sure what's going to happen first: toppling the stash, or throwing his shoulder out. "Do you really need to find that exact dress, honey?"

"I really do." Carson props one hand on her hip. "The blue and green one that kind of looks like a basket."

Addison clears her throat.

"In a good way," her daughter says quickly. "And the denim blazer thing too, if you can find it. The one you're wearing in the picture – "

" – on the fireplace," Derek finishes, both because he's heard the request before and because he remembers the picture well, and fondly. Not for the _blue and green basket_ or the denim blazer, more for their big smiles and undeniable youth.

The fabulous hair doesn't hurt, either. The point is: it's a good picture, and it's had a place of honor in every home since –

"Derek, I think she's right," Addison says, pointing. It's not the first time the two of them have tag-teamed him into taking down a box that contained absolutely zero blue and green basket dresses.

There was the box of old tackle that interested Max far too much.

And the one with the medical school textbooks that's responsible for at least a third of his current shoulder pain.

And then the one with photographs in it, so that all three of them had to stop and exclaim over it before they could start looking again for the elusive box of Addison's old dresses.

"Don't forget the red belt," Addison reminds their daughter. "There was a red belt too."

"Whose side are you on?" Derek asks.

"We're all on the same side." Addison tucks her hair behind her ears. "And anyway, honey, I didn't even mention the earrings."

Carson brightens at the word _earrings. _"Do you still have them, Mom?"

"Thank you, for that." Derek is smiling though, as he gauges the distance to the latest box option.

Helpfully, Carson pushes over the stepladder. Derek makes his way up, shuffles a few boxes around in a sort of death-wish tetris, and makes it down with a sealed cardboard movers' box, Carson grabbing Max's mostly-for-show collar and hauling him out of the way just in time. The large dog consents, mainly because he's coincidentally heard a chirping bird out of one of the dormer windows and decided to go offer a rather slobbering but welcoming hello.

"Look, it says 20 – something." Carson kneels in front of the box once her father has set it on the ground. She peers at the writing. "It's kind of smudged. But it looks – old, right?"

Addison and Derek exchange an amused glance.

"We can give it a shot," Addison says. "I'm just not sure there's clothing in it, Cars. Which is why I told Dad we needed a system for the boxes," she adds.

"I'm sitting right here," Derek reminds her.

"We'll find the dress." Carson remains an optimist about most things even as she hurtles terrifyingly toward adolescence . . . a chip off the paternal block, in that one way at least. "We have to," she adds, twisting the initial ring on her pinky finger, "because the dance is tomorrow."

. . . and she's a bit of a worrier too, rather like her non-maternal block.

"We'll find something before then," Addison assures her. "I have other dresses you can wear, sweetie."

"Not as good as that one," Carson sighs. "It's the perfect costume – I mean, the perfect dress," she corrects herself quickly at her mother's frown.

"What kind of a theme is _Turn of the Millennium_, anyway?" Derek asks. "Why can't your school have nice, normal dances, like . . . _Under the Stars_, something like that?"

Carson ignores him, busy with the boxcutter now; Addison leans in so only Derek can hear her. "Speaking as someone who's pretty offended by the theme they did pick . . . do you _really_ want our daughter spending the evening _Under the Stars?_"

"No," he whispers back, "but it would be easier to find a dress."

"It's a good theme," Carson says. She pauses, maybe remembering the story she told her parents about how vigorously she voted against it. " . . . it's for a good cause, anyway."

"Is the cause physical therapy?" Derek rubs at a sore spot in his shoulder . "Because I'm going to need it after today."

Addison reaches out to massage the spot, which isn't such a bad result.

"It's sealed up," Carson observes, picking experimentally at a corner of the packing tape. "It looks like you never even opened it."

"We probably didn't."

"It looks _really_ old," Carson continues, apparently oblivious to her mother's reaction. "Max, down," she adds in the same expressionless voice one might use with a telemarketer. They learned long ago that their shaggy rescue dog – the one who's traveled from house to house with them just like the unopened box – intuits his own commands. For example, right now, he's decided to obey an unspoken order to snuffle his very wet nose into Addison's hand.

"She's right," Derek acknowledges, when he glances down at the box. "It's older than she is. It has to be, if you look at – "

He stops talking.

Addison reaches for his hand to give it a squeeze, not seeming to mind that it's the same one Max just snuffled into.

Carson, meanwhile, traces the name of the movers on top of the box.

"I know you were living in Seattle when I was – born," she starts, choosing the last word firmly, and both parents appreciate her avoidance of the term _conceived. _ "But what about when – "

"That was later," Derek reminds her.

"Oh, yeah. I knew that." Carson ruffles the fur on top of Max's head; he returns the favor by jumping up to paw enthusiastically at the top of the box.

Addison glances at Derek, then back to their daughter.

"But then why did we move to – no, Max," she says in the same tone one might advise a young woman in a horror film _don't go in that door._ As in: she's invested in the outcome, but aware she has no control over it.

"Down," Derek says, ineffectually; Max wags his tail enthusiastically as he tips the whole thing over.

"Max," Addison sighs; it's not really a scolding – you'd need an obedient dog for that to work. More the way you sigh _rain_ when droplets start to fall from the sky. You can't control it – so you either enjoy it, or cover your head.

"No dresses. But look at all this old stuff," Carson says with interest. "Maybe there's some accessories or something." She squats down in front of the box.

Lifting out a battered looking pair of strappy shoes with obvious tooth marks, Carson turns to her mother. "Did Max do that?" she asks, indicating the damage.

"No," Addison says after a moment. "It was – another dog."

"You had a dog before Max?"

"Just for a little while." Derek settles on the floor next to Carson, then extends a hand to Addison, who joins them.

Max accepts the unspoken invitation and flops down in the center, in front of the scattered contents of the box, and rests his head companionably in Carson's lap.

One by one, each Shepherd reaches for something from the box. There's the black satin headband Addison forgot about – she couldn't exactly get away with a headband after 2005, though a little part of her missed it.

"I liked that thing," Derek says wistfully and both of them catch Carson rolling her eyes, as she's wont to do at what she considers overly overt affection.

"Maybe I can wear it again. _Don't_ make that face, Carson," she scolds with mock severity, "I watched you buy a scrunchie a month ago."

"What's wrong with that?" Carson looks automatically to her wrist.

"Scrunchies used to be what headbands are now," Addison explains.

Carson, who has been a thoughtful child from the moment she could put those thoughts into words, giving serious consideration to questions like _which shade of pink sippy cup will you consent to drink from today_, twists a lock of long hair around her finger. "I'm not sure it's comparable," she says after a few moments of silence interrupted only by Max's loud snuffles.

"You could wear it to the dance."

"You didn't," Carson reminds her. "In the picture, your hair was like – " and she pulls the top part of her long, dark hair away from her face, her mother nodding in agreement.

"A headband could work too, though," Addison says.

"If the hair debate is finished," Derek interjects mildly, holding up a manila envelope, "look what I found."

"Max's papers!" Carson reaches for them eagerly. "He was _so_ cute." She pages through the records, including pictures of a younger and deceptively angelic-looking Max. There's a smile playing on her lips; Carson's always loved the story of how Max joined their family.

They trade memories while Max, who seems to sense he's being discussed and rather enjoy that fact, makes his way to his back for some well-deserved belly scratches.

"What's this one?" Carson reaches into the box for another official-looking manila envelope. "More of Max's things? Do you have the vet records from when he ate the . . . ."

Her voice trails off; another look at what she's holding and they realize why.

"Carson, wait – "

They both reach for her at the same time, but not quickly enough to prevent her from pulling the papers out of the envelope.

Carson's blue eyes widen; they're all that's visible over the top of the papers.

Very familiar papers.

Papers they haven't seen in a long time – but not the kind of papers you forget, either.

"You kept those?" Derek asks, turning to Addison.

"I kept them," she admits, wincing a little.

They both turn to their daughter, who is studying the contents of the envelope intently.

"These are divorce papers," she says after a moment, most of her face still obscured.

"Sweetie." Derek reaches for her hand. "Why don't you let us explain."

Slowly, Carson lowers the envelope and looks from one parent to the other. "You got divorced? _You_ two got divorced?" The disbelief combined with her slightly wrinkled nose adds the unspoken part of the sentence: _then why do I have to roll my eyes all the time when you get all mushy? _

"No," Addison says quickly, glancing at Derek.

"Then why do you have these? Were you, like, separated?" She looks at her father. "You're married now, right?" she asks. "Because if not, that 25th anniversary thing last month was kind of weird."

Derek suppresses a smile. "We're married now, yes."

"Wait." Carson purses her lips; the expression always makes her look like her mother. "Is this one of those things where you were never really married? And that . . . silver vow renewal thing last month," she manages not to look as nauseated as she did when Derek and Addison confessed their plans, "was actually real?"

"The vow renewal was real, honey. But we were already married. We _are_ married."

"Okay." Carson considers this. "So you didn't get remarried at the thing."

"We did," Derek admits, "in a way, but not because we were divorced."

"This doesn't make any sense." Carson has the same expression on her face Derek and Addison do when they try to make sense of the Snapchat messages to which their daughter grudgingly gives them supervisory access. It's not that having a twelve-and-a-half year old is stressful.

. . . well. She's fairly certain Derek's hair would be less grey without the various modes of social media they've had to figure out, but it's not like they'd change it for anything.

"Carson." Addison smiles encouragingly at their almost-teenager-oh-my-god and recalls the phrasing she picked up from one of the enormous stack of parenting books she used as security blankets – what Derek used to call the _Addison Shepherd Public Library_. "What would you like to know, sweetie?"

"I'd like to know if I'm illegitimate."

Derek coughs, then clears his throat.

"Okay, first of all, no child is _illegitimate_," Addison says firmly. "But your dad and I were married when you were born," she assures her daughter, "not that there's anything wrong with a woman having a baby without being married, or a woman having a baby on her own, or a man – "

"Mom, I get it. You're open-minded." Carson lifts the envelope. "I just want to know the deal with the divorce papers."

Derek and Addison exchange a glance.

"Just tell me." Carson raises her eyebrows. "Come on, it can't be as bad as the Santa thing."

Derek winces. "We're still sorry about that."

"Yeah, me too." Carson pushes a lock of dark hair out of her eyes; apparently the scrunchie on her wrist is just for show. "So make up for it now. Tell me about the divorce thing."

Addison looks at Derek.

Derek looks at Addison.

"Is she ready for it?"

"I think she's ready for it."

"Okay." Derek reaches for her hand. "But, Cars – the divorce thing is really just part of a longer story of . . . how I stayed married to your mother."

"Excuse me." Addison frowns. "It's really more the story of how I stayed married to _you_."

"Don't you both have to stay married if you're going to be married?" Carson asks.

"So wise," Derek says, smiling at their daughter. "So young, and yet so wise."

"She doesn't get it from you," Addison mutters.

"I'm not that young," Carson frowns.

And they're none of them getting any younger, which Derek thinks better of whispering to Addison.

"If the divorce – "

"We didn't get divorced."

"If the _not_ _divorce_," Carson continues smoothly after her father's interruption, "is just part of a longer story, then fine. Tell me the whole thing. Tell me how you ended up getting _re_married."

"The thing is," Addison says tentatively, "it's kind of a long story."

"Very long," Derek agrees.

"And it's not exactly linear."

"I'm sure she's heard you tell a story before," Derek says under his breath, not quite managing to avoid an elbow to the ribs.

Carson is still looking at them, not ready to let this go. _Headstrong_: that one she got from Addison. (Or Derek, depending on which parent you ask.)

"Just tell the story already," Carson says. "Please."

"All right." Derek glances at Addison, then back at their daughter. "You already know some of it, Cars," he starts. "You know about the cottage in Rhode Island, and the gecko."

Their daughter nods.

"But like I said before, it's a long story. If you really want to hear about how I remarried your mother, we can't just start there. Or even with the divorce papers," Derek says, nodding toward the unsigned divorce papers. "We have to go back pretty far."

"How far?" Carson asks.

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"Far," he says.

"Okay." Carson sits back, crossing her legs, Max moving to rest his head in her lap again. One hand resting in the dog's fur, she looks up at her parents. "I'm listening. Tell me the story."

* * *

_To be continued, if you're interested in reading! If you liked it, thank Kary. If you liked it and you're mad that you have another story to read instead of being productive working/studying . . . blame Kary. I'm pretty excited about this, though, for a few reasons, so I hope you'll review and let me know what you think!_

_Story inspiration: "Derek actually tried with Addison, moved into a house whilst they left the land as is in case they wanted to do something with it in the future, and later on in their marriage they adopted a rescue dog Max and had a babygirl named Carson."_

_. . . see? How could I not? Review if you want to hear the next part of the story!_


	2. The Blue Duffel

_Oh hey, remember this story? The one where I accepted an awesome prompt to rip off a clever tv show premise (not that one, the other one). The one where Addison and Derek reconciled after Season 2 and their present day daughter finds the ... just read Chapter 1 first. It's short._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Episode 2: The Blue Duffel**

* * *

"Back in the spring of 2006, Carson, your mother and I—"

"It was really more like winter," Addison interjects. "Late winter."

"... do you want to tell this story?"

"I'd be happy to."

"Someone tell me the story," Carson begs. "So it was spring or winter or whatever, and then what?"

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"Well," Derek says, clearing his throat a little, "it was ... whenever it was ... and your mother came over to the ... where I was living."

"You weren't living together?"

Addison and Derek exchange another glance.

"We weren't getting along," Addison says diplomatically.

"But you were married."

"But we were married." Derek smiles at her. "It's a long story, Cars, remember? So... where was I ... "

* * *

..

_Late Winter or Early Spring or Whatever 2006_

_Seattle_

* * *

He's hoping he's imagining things when he hears the sound of a car winding up the grassy drive to the trailer. Sure, Addison's never been late for anything in her life, but she's thirty minutes early now.

Which means he's still here, which means they're going to see each other, which means that somehow two surgeons couldn't figure out the precision necessary to avoid awkward pre-divorce ... whatever.

She doesn't get out of the car once she's parked, though. He can see her through the window, sizing up the Jeep, maybe trying to figure out if he's home.

He feels a little bad, in spite of himself. He's been handling this as honorably as he can, offering her space to clear her things out of the trailer, telling her she didn't have to rush — she's the one who picked today.

Another small sacrifice is worth it for things to end amicably, right? So he opens the trailer door.

"What are you doing here?" Addison asks, shading her eyes from the sun as she unfolds herself from the car.

"I live here," he jokes weakly.

"And I don't, not anymore." She fixes him with a cool stare (yes, he can tell this even though she's wearing those typically oversized sunglasses ... they were married for eleven years, after all). "Which is why I'm here now, to pack."

"You can pack."

"To pack alone," she amends. "You were supposed to be ... fishing or whatever."

"Camping." He looks down at his clothes. "You're early, Addison."

"We said 11."

"No, we said 11:30."

"Why would I be here at 11 if we said 11:30?" She props a hand on her hip.

"Because ..."

His voice trails off.

"Just come in and pack," he sighs. "I'll stay out of your way."

She nods like they're doing a business transaction and sweeps past him up the stairs into the trailer. If they were still married he'd probably tease her right about now — why does anyone need to dress up and wear those clacking shoes to pack, of all things?

But they're not, so he doesn't.

And he said he'd stay out of her way—it seems only fair—but he also doesn't want to leave early for the camping trip he's already ambivalent about. So he leaves her alone in the trailer to walk toward the lake. A little fresh air can't hurt.

He can't have been gone very long when he hears her call his name.

"I thought you wanted space to pack," he can't resist saying.

"I do. Actual space."

He tilts his head, confused.

"Derek. That's my bag." She points to the navy canvas duffel currently sitting on the bed. The one stuffed with his camping things.

"No, it isn't. It's my bag."

"No, yours is the other one. This one is mine. I'll show you," but he moves the bag as she starts to unzip it.

"I'm all packed already," he reminds her.

"You could probably fit a lot more in there," she murmurs.

(It's true that packing was always easier when she did it.)

"I fit plenty in there. Just—pack another bag, Addison."

"I don't have another bag. Not one that will hold as much."

He exhales, frustrated. "Then how did you get your things here in the first place?"

But he remembers before she can answer: she had them shipped, packed in some kind of fancy paper and bubble wrap or whatever.

Because people pack bags when they're planning to return. When she moved into the trailer, she had her things shipped. She was planning to stay.

It's enough to make him wonder a little about his own packing the night he left Manhattan. But the strategy he's had since that night still works: the less you think about that night, the better.

"I need this bag right now," he says, trying to be reasonable. "If you can't pack without it, then maybe you can't pack today."

"I need to pack today."

"Why? Are you going somewhere?"

She raises her eyebrows. "You think I want to drag this out?"

Fine, he walked into this.

"You know we have an appointment on—"

"I know, Derek. I'm not planning to skip town before we meet with the divorce mediator."

"Good." He nods, feeling like a little wrong footed, though he's not sure why. "So you haven't changed your mind about moving back to New York, then?"

Addison stares at him for a moment.

"I think I'd better come back when the bag is free," she says after a moment. "Let me know when you're back from your ... thing."

"Wait."

"Ideally, a time the bag is here and _you _aren't." She pauses. "Have fun camping," she says, and then she's gone in a cloud of perfume that he just knows is going to linger until whenever she deigns to come back.

..

He has fun camping.

Sort of.

It's ... fine, but he's relieved to be back in the trailer. And he's even a little relieved to be back at work. Back in the rhythms of his Seattle life, which are ... they're great.

"Derek! How was Boy Scout camp?"

... with a few exceptions.

"What do you want, Mark?"

"I heard you didn't let Addison move out of the trailer."

"You heard wrong."

So Addison has been complaining about him in his absence ... to Mark? And here Derek has been trying to be considerate of her feelings.

"I heard what I heard." Mark shrugs. "So does this mean Meredith's single again?"

"It does not mean that," Derek says with gritted teeth. "Good luck with Addison," Mark smirks. "If you need a best man for the second wedding, I think my tux still fits."

Running into Mark is enough to make him want to run for the hills (again). But insinuating he somehow stopped Addison from packing? Or that they ... need luck?

He obviously has no luck, at any rate, because Addison is standing at the nurses desk as he walks up, still in a funk about that conversation with Mark.

"Good morning, Derek," she says, glancing up at him. "How was your trip?"

"Don't worry about my trip." He glares at her. "What have you been telling Mark?"

She looks confused.

"Forget it. Just—let's pick a time for you to pack."

"Okay." She glances at her blackberry. "I have a patient, though. Can you email me, or—"

"Pick a time. Any time, and I'll make it work. But pick it now."

She looks a little taken aback. "Um, okay. Tomorrow, I guess."

"What time?"

..

... oh, she has _got _to be kidding.

This time, he dispenses with the niceties right away.

"We said 8:30."

"We said 7:30."

They face each other in the dark, Derek wondering how many times they're going to have to do this.

"Forget it. Just come in and pack."

"Is the bag—"

"The bag is on the bed."

She pauses when he holds the trailer door open for her. "I hope that's all that's on the bed," she says under her breath, but loudly enough that it's obviously meant for him.

"I'm not you," he reminds her coldly.

"But you did sleep with your mistress—"

"She's not my mistress."

"You did sleep with your not-wife," Addison amends, "and you did bring back a trophy, too."

She wrinkles her nose.

Fine, he's not proud of that ... but he's apologized.

"Addison ... the bag is on the bed," he says pointedly.

"I see it." She looks from the bag to the cabinets to the closet space she did a pretty decent job of hogging considering he's lived here quite a bit longer.

She just stands there for long moments.

"Do you want help?" he asks finally.

"... it's okay."

No one martyrs herself quite like St. Addison.

"Just tell me where to start." He rolls his sleeves up; he might as well dig in if he wants her to leave.

"I don't know where to start."

"Addison ..."

"... I really hate packing."

Her voice is small now, not angry or martyry either.

"I know." He sighs. This is going to be a long night, no matter how early she arrived. "You, uh, you want a drink?"

"You're offering me a drink?"

"Yes, I'm offering you a drink." He heads to the cabinet and takes down two glasses. "You hate packing. And we're ... getting divorced, so yes, I'm offering you a drink." He pauses. "Are you saying no?"

"No." She takes the drink, and sits down on the bed without invitation.

She doesn't speak again until she's finished the drink.

"We're really getting divorced."

"Yeah." He sits down in one of the kitchen chairs, then glances toward the drawer where he knows the old set of divorce papers still lives. They'll draw up new ones with the mediator, of course. Tomorrow.

"Tomorrow," she says out loud like she's read his mind.

She's staring into her glass.

"Addison—"

"Shoes," she says abruptly.

"What?"

"Shoes. We can start with shoes. You're still going to help me pack?"

"...sure," he says after a moment.

They're civil, and he's thoughtful.

He can help her pack.

Which is how he ends up sitting on the floor of his trailer with less than an hour left to midnight, trying to wrap one ridiculous shoe after another in tissue paper that meets his wife's exacting standards.

His soon to be ex wife.

It feels a little strange to be packing up her shoes— not just because his feet fell asleep a couple of three inch heels ago. It's sort of ... final. The end of things is sad, even when you want it. Even when you want it, and even when it's your idea. And your fault.

"Dresses!" Addison calls cheerfully from across the trailer.

... his wife is another story. Her mood seems to have improved with every picky criticism of his packing skills and now that she's moved on to pulling flimsy little blouses out of the closet she's practically exuberant.

His I Hate Packing wife, the one who used to get fits of melancholy just filling the car when they closed up the Hamptons house for the summer. She never liked saying goodbye.

He busies himself making another drink when she starts to pack up her ... personal items. Little silky things that he has no business looking at, not anymore.

"You want another?"

She turns at his question, holding something blue and lacy in her hands and he averts his gaze.

"My bra isn't going to bite you, Derek." She rolls her eyes. "It's the same bra it was a week ago, when ..."

She gestures as if to say: when we were still trying.

But everything is different now.

He just hands her a drink.

"To packing." She clinks her glass against his.

"... to packing."

She's folding the sweater he remembers her wearing Thanksgiving night, when he met her outside the trailer. She catches him looking, but just continues making those little origami packets that mean she can fit 700 things in an average sized bag like a high fashion Mary Poppins. None of it wrinkled ... ever. He always meant to ask her how she did it, but it never came up. He probably assumed she'd always be there to pack for him.

"Derek."

He glances up and she gestures at her watch.

"It's after midnight," she prompts him.

"So?"

"So, it's after midnight, which means the mediator meeting isn't tomorrow, it's today."

"Oh." He finishes his drink.

"It's late," she says after a moment.

Before he can respond, she's opening another drawer.

His drawer.

"Hey—"

"Can I take this?"

He looks at the old t shirt she's pointing to. It's one she's worn often, from his college baseball team, but it feels strange now.

"You want me to wait and ask the mediator?" Her tone sounds like she's only half joking. "... if it's community property or whatever."

"You don't have to ask the mediator."

"Thank you." But then she starts to unfold it.

"Addison, wait—"

It's too late.

There's a clinking sound that has nothing to do with her ridiculous shoes.

And then silence.

"You kept it," she says quietly, holding the ring between two fingers.

His wedding ring.

He doesn't respond.

"I figured you threw it in the bay or something. I looked, after you left, but I didn't see it at home. You were wearing it when you ...".

Her voice trails off.

"You never put it back on."

"I know." He clears his throat. "Addison—"

"What are we supposed to do with them now?" Her voice is soft, like she's talking to herself. "I guess we can ask the mediator tomorrow."

"Today," he corrects her automatically.

"Right." She twists the rings she's still wearing around her fourth finger. "You, um, you want them back?"

"Your rings?"

She nods.

"Why would I want your rings?"

"You bought them. And we're not married anymore."

"After tomorrow," he reminds her.

"You mean today."

"... right."

She's holding all three of their rings now.

"You can keep the rings, Addison."

"Yours too?"

He pauses. _Yes, _is what he should say, of course, because what is he going to do with it?

But he doesn't.

"You want to keep it?" she asks uncertainly.

But he doesn't want that either.

There's nothing in between, though.

"Just leave it," he says finally. "Just leave the ring."

"The t shirt..."

"Leave the ring and take the shirt." He sighs. "It's late, Addison."

"I know." She takes the shirt and starts her complicated process of folding it. "It's going to seem a lot bigger in here once I'm gone, isn't it? ... a little bigger, anyway."

He doesn't respond.

"Unless you move Meredith in right away. Are you moving Meredith in right away?"

"No," he says.

"Not that it's my business anymore. After tomorrow."

"Today."

"Right." She slips the folded little pellet of t shirt into the blue canvas duffel. Somehow, although it's inarguably full, it's not even bulging.

"For someone who hates packing ... you're good at it," he says, a little grudgingly, pouring another drink.

He pours another for her too, and she takes it.

"I have to drive back."

"So don't drink it."

She drinks it.

"Addison?"

She sticks her head out from the bathroom, where she's been packing her toiletries. She doesn't seem so exuberant now, and she's moving a little slower, maybe tired.

"Yes?"

"... your boots are outside."

"I know." She disappears into the bathroom again.

He should remind her to take her shampoo. He doesn't need any more showers that smell like her.

It's another hour before she finally surveys the space and declares herself finished.

"You're okay to drive?" he asks doubtfully.

"Are you offering me coffee?"

He wasn't, but he makes some anyway. She supervises him, staring at the French press like it's a retractor and he's a shaky intern.

When it's ready, he pours himself a cup too.

"Why are you drinking coffee?"

"I was going to help you pack the car."

"... oh." She takes a sip. "Thank you."

"How's the coffee?"

"Not very good," she says after a moment, "but I won't have to drink any more after tomorrow."

"You mean today."

She takes another sip.

"I'll bring your bags out," he offers and he starts to load the car.

It's going to take several trips, and if he thought Addison was scrutinizing his coffee making then he forgot how seriously she takes trunk organization.

She ends up following him outside, pointing out his misjudgments and offering unsolicited advice while he tries not to snap at her and reminds himself that he won't be in this position again after ... today.

He's packed so many cars with and for Addison, loading up their old wagon before weekend trips—the one they inherited from Lizzie—or loading their suitcases into the Jeep he bought later so they could open up the house for the summer.

It always went the same way: Addison packed the bags (and complained about it); Derek packed the car (and Addison complained about that too). And then finally when the trunk was closed Derek would climb into the drivers seat and Addison would settle on the passenger side and she would lean across the console and kiss him. "Here we go," one of them would say, and that was that. One kiss and all the complaining was forgotten and it was about the trip instead of the work it took to get there.

"Don't forget the blue duffel," Addison reminds him, unnecessarily.

As if he could forget the bag that practically thwarted this whole thing.

It takes some work to get everything in, Addison at his elbow making irritating suggestions that he mostly ignores until at last he slams the trunk shut with some finality.

_Done._

He opens the door and sits down in the driver's seat, reaching for the keys in the ignition ... and then realizes what he's doing.

"...Derek?" Addison is looking at him from the passenger side. "What are you doing?"

"I ... forgot," he admits, realizing how ridiculous it sounds.

He's tired. Or drunk. Three drinks in six hours and a coffee? He's a damn lightweight in his old age.

She opens her mouth to say something— he can see her in the light from the open car door— but before she can speak the sky opens up and sheets of rain come crashing down.

Addison yelps with surprise and ducks into the car, closing it as rain pelts the windshield.

The lights go off. It's just the trailer lights now.

"Derek."

He's nervous for some reason about what she's going to say.

"I hate the weather in Seattle."

He's relieved (he's pretty sure).

"Well, it seems to hate you too."

She sounds like she's trying not to laugh.

They sit in silence for a few long moments.

"Do you remember when we used to pack the car to go the Hamptons?" Her voice is soft and reminiscent, almost dreamy. She must be tired too.

"I remember."

Silence again, except for the pounding rain.

"We're getting divorced tomorrow," she whispers, a crack of thunder emphasizing the point.

"... today."

"We're getting divorced today." Her voice cracks a little.

"Addison—"

"No, it's good. It's great."

"It's sad," he reminds her.

"It's sad, but it's good."

He can hear her breathing in the enclosed space.

"You think it's good?" he asks, not sure why.

"... no."

She sounds a little embarrassed.

"Addison."

"You think it will stop raining soon?"

"Maybe."

"I hate driving in the rain."

"I know." He sighs. "I can drive you—"

He pauses.

He almost said _home._

"You're still at the Archfield?"

"Yeah." She pauses. "I guess I have to figure out somewhere to live."

Something in her tone makes him sad. For her to live, alone. It's been a long time.

"I hate dealing with realtors," she says in a small voice.

"Maybe Mark can do it."

He's not sure why he said that either.

"I'm not moving in with Mark."

"He's here," Derek reminds her.

"He's here because he's Mark. But I'm not moving in with him."

"Because he's Mark?"

"Exactly."

The rain isn't letting up. They're stuck in a parked car.

They're almost divorced.

She almost moved out.

"I hate the rain," she says.

"You hate a lot of things."

"I don't hate you."

He's surprised. Something in the air suggests she might be a little surprised too.

"... I don't hate you either," he says.

"It would be easier if I could."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

She's quiet for long moments again, and he wonders if she's fallen asleep.

"Derek?"

... apparently not.

"You said you were sorry, at the hotel, before ... before. Did you mean it?"

"Of course I meant it."

"Okay." She pauses. "I'm sorry too."

"I know."

"Thank you for helping me pack," she says.

"Anytime."

He says it automatically but realizes his mistake a second later.

They're getting divorced tomorrow/today/whenever and there will be no more packing together.

"Addison."

"I'm glad you didn't throw out your ring."

He's exhausted trying to keep up with her changes in mood and topic. "You are?" he asks.

"Yeah, I am."

There's a flash of lightning that illuminates the inside of the car for a moment.

Addison looks as tired as he feels.

And then a crack of thunder—so the storm is close—and suddenly her perfume is in his nostrils and her lips are on his.

It's a second before he realizes what she's doing and he's responding automatically—she's warm and soft and familiar—

"Wait, Addison."

She stops.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. ... saying goodbye, I guess."

"Is this how you say goodbye to everyone now?"

"You're not _everyone. _You're still my husband for ... another few hours."

He tries to see his watch in the darkness.

"We have a meeting in a few hours," he reminds her; his lips are tingling and he stays focused. "We should get some sleep."

"It's still raining."

"I know."

"If I leave the car I'll get soaked and I packed all my other clothes."

"So what do you want to do, sleep in the car?"

She doesn't respond.

"Seriously? No."

"Why not?"

"Bears," he says—the trump card— and he can feel her shudder next to him.

"If you sleep here too the bears are less likely to break in, aren't they?"

"I'm not sleeping here, Addison."

"But if you did," she persists.

He sighs. "If I did—but I'm not—then yes. Safety in numbers."

"Safety in numbers," she repeats sleepily.

"Addison, wait, we're not sleeping out here, can you just—"

But she's already asleep.

Sighing, he decides he might as well rest his eyes. Just until the rain lets up, and then he'll figure all of this out.

They both sleep.

They sleep deeply, with the sounds of the rain outside and their professionally-honed ability to sleep in any position.

They sleep right through their appointment with the mediator in the morning.

(Addison will say Derek should have turned on the ignition and Derek will say Addison should have agreed to go into the trailer, and the mediator will roll his eyes because he's pretty much seen it all.)

* * *

"You _didn't_ sign the divorce papers," Carson says, sounding satisfied. "So that was it? You made up after that?"

Addison and Derek exchange a glance.

"You're gonna say it's still a long story."

"Missing the appointment with the mediator was an important step," Derek says, "but a lot more had to happen before we were ready to be ... remarried."

Their daughter nods eagerly. "So keep going," she says. "I want to hear the whole story."

_... **and hopefully you do too! Thank you for reading and I hope you'll share your thoughts. This story may jump around a bit as they fill their daughter in on everything she missed. Requests/things you hope they'll cover?**_

**_Have a great Sunday everyone, and remember, reviews keep the Addek flag flying! _**


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